


Strange and Beautiful

by derryderrydown



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Lord Peter Wimsey - Sayers
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Wimsey/Lawrence of Arabia crossover. Yes. My brain scares me at times. At university, two opposites discover a common interest. Written for the Booze Fuh-Q Fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lawrence had first encountered Peter Wimsey in Vyvyan Richards' rooms. Wimsey had popped his head round the door and quickly charmed Vyvyan into giving him some history notes before making a hasty exit. "Who's that?" Lawrence had asked.

"Wimsey of Balliol," Vyvyan had answered and that had been all Lawrence needed to know. The younger son of the Duke of Denver, already making a name for himself as a cricketer; the sort of person who followed the crowd by leading it. Lawrence settled back into his cross-legged position on the floor and dismissed Wimsey from his thoughts.

* * *

They met again, the following day, outside the Radcliffe Camera.

"Lawrence, isn't it?" Wimsey's rather foolish face lit up in an open, welcoming smile and Lawrence had to fight not to respond. "We met at Richards', yesterday."

"I remember."

Wimsey blinked, apparently confused by Lawrence's curtness. Unsurprising, Lawrence thought. Most people were probably falling over themselves to be friends with a duke's son. Still, Wimsey gathered   
himself up with aplomb. "I hear you went to Syria this summer, researching your thesis."

"Yes."

"I wondered if you'd have time one evening to tell me about it? I'm rather interested in the Crusades, you see."

"I take it you're studying them for your degree?"

Wimsey actually looked taken aback. "No, just personal interest." The foolish smile was back. "The ancestors were always popping off on Crusades and it's interesting to find out what the old scoundrels were up to over there."

"Really." Lawrence's voice was flat. "I'm afraid I'm busy." He walked away, ignoring Wimsey's ostentatiously raised eyebrow and whispered, "Curious chap."

Which made it all the stranger that Lawrence somehow found himself, a few days later, agreeing to pop round to Wimsey's room to lend him the photographs of Aleppo and the Hittite seals he had purchased on his journeys.

* * *

"Wine?" Peter asked, retrieving two glasses from the cupboard. "I've got a rather nice-"

"I don't drink," Lawrence interrupted.

"Oh, neither do I," Peter assured him with an earnestness born of insincerity. "But wine doesn't really count as drinking. It's merely a sensory indulgence." As he tasted the words, his smile hinted at pleasant reminiscences.

"I don't indulge myself." Lawrence's voice was flat and Peter turned to face him, one eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Not at all? Somehow I doubt that."

Lawrence shrugged. "That's your business."

"For example," Peter continued, ignoring him, "I suspect your bad manners are something of an indulgence."

Lawrence jerked upright. "I say!" he protested.

"I envy you, I really do. My uncle would disown me if I indulged myself in that way. So, alas, I'm reduced to wine." He smiled brightly. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a glass?"

Their gazes met and, after a moment, Lawrence's mouth twitched. "Very well, you win. I'll accept a glass of wine and keep it at my elbow until you have to leave the room for some reason. Then I'll pour it out the window and, when you return, claim it was absolutely delightful but no, thank you, I won't have another because I haven't eaten yet and it's going to my head."

Peter laughed and Lawrence felt a brief stab of envy for the other's easy confidence.

"At which point, I will offer to have dinner sent up to my room for us."

"And I will invent a dinner appointment which means I really can't stay but I'll thank you sincerely for the invitation."

"Which I will take as my cue to propose we make it some other time. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Ah, no, I'm busy tomorrow."

Peter smiled and placed the glasses on the desk. "So perhaps we should just make it tonight?"

Lawrence tilted his head and studied his fellow student. After a moment, he smiled back. "I surrender."

"Good." Peter's smile widened. "I believe it's lamb chops tonight - not the speciality of Balliol's kitchens but they tend to be edible. What would you be having at Jesus?"

"I don't actually live at college."

"No? You lucky swine. Are you in digs?"

Lawrence thought of his bungalow in his parents' garden and smiled. "My own house, of a sort."

"We'll have dinner at yours next time, then," Peter decided, walking back to the cupboard. "I've got a very nice Niersteiner that my uncle recommended," he continued from inside the cupboard. "And a fairly decent burgundy, though it'll need time to breathe. We can have that after dinner." He popped his head out of the cupboard. "I know I press-ganged you rather, old man. You don't have to stay if you'd rather not."

"I've already admitted that my other dinner engagement is imaginary, so I don't really have much choice in the matter." Lawrence had meant his tone to be pinched but it came out almost affectionate and Peter looked relieved as he disappeared back into the cupboard.

"None whatsoever," he agreed, re-emerging. "Here." He placed the two bottles on the desk beside Lawrence. "Open these while I sort out dinner. There's a corkscrew in that drawer." He gestured vaguely as he opened the door and then, with a sharp cry of, "Hie! Annie!" he darted out.

Lawrence stared at the chest of drawers, shrugged and pulled open the top drawer. He slammed it shut immediately, blushing hotly. Underwear. A second, cautious peep confirmed his first impression. Silk underwear.

Damn it - and he embraced the blasphemy - he had grown up with five other men in the house. Underwear was not an unusual sight. There was no cause for embarrassment just because it was silk.

Peter came back into the room and Lawrence leapt away from the drawers. Peter's smile appeared far too knowing as he opened the second drawer and tossed the corkscrew to Lawrence. "I caught a scout. The food will be up in half an hour or so." Peter folded himself into the chair and gestured towards the bed. "Take a seat. The bed's far more comfortable than this." He tapped the shaky leg of the chair. "I wish it would hurry up and do me the favour of collapsing but my brother says it was like this when he was here, so it's not likely to happen soon.

"Your brother came here?"

"Yes." Peter picked up a glass and studied it. "Dashed annoying, actually. He made a bit of a fool of himself while he was here and people keep expecting me to go the same route." He looked up. "Here, are you going to open that Niersteiner or not? Toss the corkscrew over."

Lawrence did so and in seconds the bottle had been skilfully opened. "My uncle taught me that," Peter remarked with a hint of pride. "He always says that there's nothing more likely to disrupt a seduction than cork in the wine." Peter looked up sharply. "Not that this is a seduction, of course."

Ordinarily, Lawrence would have responded with a sharp retort about disapproving of seduction but Peter's comment on his manners had struck home. "Pleased to hear it," was all he said and imagined a fleeting look of disappointment on Peter's face.

Conversation drifted back to the safer topic of Lawrence's journeys across Syria. Absorbed in his audience's rapturous attention, Lawrence barely noticed eating dinner or the fact that he had ended up in his familiar position, cross-legged on the floor. He certainly didn't notice that they'd emptied both bottles of wine and that, due to Peter's careful attentions, Lawrence had drunk more than his fair share.

He rambled to a halt, blinking as he realised Peter was no longer sitting on the wobbly chair.

Peter was crouching next to him, one elegant thumb running over Lawrence's lower lip.

"Would you mind dreadfully if I kissed you?" Peter asked and Lawrence managed a slight shake of his head that set the room spinning. "I am glad," Peter murmured and then his lips were touching Lawrence's and Lawrence's eyes were sliding shut.

It was as gentle a caress as if he were touching a remnant of ancient pottery and Lawrence pressed forward, to find that Peter retreated from him. He opened his eyes and Peter was smiling at him.

"The bed might be more comfortable," he suggested and, without a word, Lawrence lurched to his feet. The room swayed for a moment but it was only a few steps to the bed and he made it without embarrassing himself. It was only when Peter gently pushed him to lie down that he realised moving to the bed was a definite statement of interest in something more than a kiss.

There was a faint twinge of guilt but he angrily pushed it from his mind as he pulled Peter down on top of him. With a whisper of laughter, Peter's mouth was closing on his, tongue caressing his lips before darting into his mouth and Lawrence, so used to being the protagonist, could only lie there with occasional moans of pleasure.

"God, you're gorgeous," Peter murmured between kisses. "Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence."

There was a kaleidoscope of responses in Lawrence's mind but all he could do was rest his hand on the back of Peter's neck and pull him in closer.

And then, oh God, Peter's body was pressed against his, firm and so damned masculine, and Lawrence's breath was sobbing in his throat as he pushed back against every half-imagined pressure.

"Hush, hush." Peter's hand was brushing his hair back from his forehead. "We've got all night, acushla. All the time we need to take it slow. I want it slow and measured and sweet." The words were accompanied by cool fingertips tracing delicate patterns over Lawrence's face as his desperate urgency to consummate this unexpected evening faded slightly.

Instead, he managed the herculean feat of moving one hand to Peter's waist. "I want you," he mumbled.

"I want you too. Oh God, I want you." Kisses were pressed over Lawrence's face, his ears, down his neck, and then Peter was pulling at Lawrence's tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

Lawrence could do nothing but lie there, revelling in the sheer hedonism.

"Wait," Peter whispered and Lawrence managed a groan of disappointment as the weight left him. A rustle of cloth and then Peter was back, warm, bare skin presing against Lawrence and Lawrence's hands were on Peter's back, pulling him closer, glorying in silk smoothness covering taut muscles and following the indentation of the spine from the prickles of Peter's immaculately trimmed hair down to the waistband of his trousers.

He exulted in the freedom the alcohol gave him. Inhibitions and insecurities were stilled and consequences could be damned until another day.

"You do have a beautiful spine," he murmured and was briefly offended by the resulting spurt of laughter.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, mouth at Lawrence's neck so the apology became a warm caress of words. "But it's one of the stranger compliments."

"I am strange." It was neither a boast nor an apology, just a simple statement of fact.

"I know." Peter eased himself upwards, resting on his arms, and studied Lawrence without a hint of laughter in his eyes. "It's one of the things I love about you. Strange, strong-"

But the mention of love had finally penetrated the comforting smog around Lawrence's mind and he stopped the words with a brutal, demanding kiss. For all Peter's declarations that he wanted to take his time, he responded to Lawrence with ardour and made no objections when Lawrence rolled them over.

Lawrence knelt upright, straddling Peter's waist, with his hands resting on the other man's heaving chest. "You're beautiful." And this was easy. No emotions, just purely objective judgement. The weak chin and sloping forehead were balanced by a firm mouth, dark from kissing, and sharp, intelligent eyes and Lawrence wasn't sure why he had ever considered this man a fool. "Your hair..." Primrose yellow, the sleek styling shattered into tousled decadence.

"A good cut can cover many deficiencies."

Lawrence frowned at the hint of bitterness in Peter's voice. This boy was too angelic to be allowed refuge in bitterness. "You're talking nonsense." His voice was husky and he stilled any further comments by resting his thumb over Peter's lips. "Now, hush."

A lazy smile and Peter's hands were brushing down Lawrence's chest, unfastening tie and shirt and pushing them down, trapping Lawrence's arms by his sides. Lawrence's eyes widened and he tested the bonds for a moment before his eyes slid shut and he let his head fall back.

"Oh, yes," Peter breathed and Lawrence lost himself in the feel of Peter's hands on his chest and stomach, the tension in Peter's stomach as he reached up to touch Lawrence's shoulders. He had expected Peter's hands to be soft but there were callouses that caught against him, frissons of texture that brought more pleasure than smooth skin could have. "You're still tanned. You didn't wear a shirt in Syria, did you?"

Memories of the sun beating down, beating him down, and he shook his head.

"Did you sweat?" Peter's hands traced down from his neck, following the path the perspiration had taken as it trickled down. "You shone in the sun, I know. And your hair was bleached white. White hair against brown skin." Peter strained upwards to touch Lawrence's face, stomach muscles quivering between Lawrence's legs. "I wish I'd seen you."

His hands were behind Lawrence's neck, pulling him down into another kiss, flavoured with memories of the desert. Peter began pulling off the shirt and Lawrence stiffened, pausing the kiss. Peter pullled back enough to speak. "I want you to hold me."

No condemnation and, through the haze, Lawrence was relieved, though a small part of his brain pointed out that he should be more ashamed of wanting to be buggered. That part of his brain was swiftly drowned in alcohol and Lawrence was holding Peter as the kiss deepened into a tangle of tongues and breath.

Peter's breath was coming quicker and his excitement was clear from where Lawrence lay. His hands were at the waistband of Lawrence's trousers, loosening them, pushing them down, stripping him completely. Hands cupping his arse, sliding over his hips, and he had to bury his face in the curve of Peter's shoulder to muffle his groans. And then he was tipped on to the bed and the world was spinning as Peter leaned down to undo their boots. His own were pulled off his feet, dropped to the floor with trousers, socks and underwear and the whole thing felt so wonderfully, addictively sinful.

He dared to reach out and stroke Peter's spine as the other man stripped, quickly and efficiently. Peter shivered and Lawrence felt a brief awareness of power before Peter was lying on top of him, kissing him with a strength and determination that made Lawrence writhe with pleasure.

And then Peter's hand was between them, grasping him with sureness and subtlety and Lawrence was wimpering, tangled words of desire and desperation falling from his mouth as Peter drove him further into   
himself, into the depths he didn't dare plumb, until he was nearly sobbing with the debased ecstasy of it all.

"I want you," whispered with hoarse need and Lawrence looked up to meet Peter's gaze.

He couldn't speak but he nodded and had to turn away from the raw emotion on Peter's face.

Peter's mouth on his throat, his collarbone, biting his shoulders; Peter's hands on him, over him, inside him and he welcomed the initial discomfort.

For a long moment, he was left without touch and panic gripped him but then Peter was back, something cold and wet on his fingers. "I don't want to hurt you."

Lawrence screwed his eyes shut and managed to bite back the demand for pain. Peter wasn't the type to give pain. Not willingly. Not deliberately.

But there was still pain as Peter slowly sank into him and Lawrence embraced it, focused on it, gorged himself on it, didn't let Peter know anything about it as they moved together, friction and sweat and pressure and it wasn't agony but it was enough, enough, enough as he clutched Peter ever closer.

And Peter gently kissed his lips as he came.

* * *

He woke to discomfort. The morning sun was bright, his head ached, his body was stiff and he felt sticky. Peter was lying too close, arms wrapped too tight around him and he shuddered as he freed himself.

Too much, he thought, shutting the door behind him as Peter still slept. Too much of everything. And yet, still, not enough.

* * *

He bumped into Peter at the Bodleian two days later.

"Lawrence!" Peter's face lit up and he ignored the scowls of irritated fellows.

Lawrence nodded acknowledgement, then left.


	2. Timestamp meme - 1935

Wimsey met Allenby on the steps of St Paul's, after the service.

"Lord Peter? Good to see you, old man."

"Viscount Allenby." Wimsey nodded. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

Allenby grunted. "Indeed. Watching what's happening in Germany? We could need men of Lawrence's sort soon."

"Let's hope we shan't."

"Hah! Hoping doesn't achieve much. Are you here as an official representative of...?"

Wimsey shook his head. "Oh, no, not official in the slightest. This is purely personal."

Allenby glowered at him. "Didn't know you knew him.

And how could he answer that? He settled for the core of the truth. "We were up at Oxford together."

"Simpler days," Allenby said and Wimsey decided it was politic to agree. "Tell me," Allenby said confidentially, "Did you ever speak to him after the war?"

"Once," Wimsey said. "At an auction - old books. I outbid him on a first edition." And had felt horribly guilty afterwards, seeing Lawrence staring at the book with the hunger of the intellectually starved, his cheap suit hanging in a way that suggested it wasn't purely starvation of the mind. "We had lunch, I tried to talk to him but..." There'd been nothing there, nothing of the arrogance that had been so appealing.

"Hmm." Allenby nodded as though Wimsey had confirmed something. "Something broke him in the war, you know. Something in the desert. And I needed him so I made the whole thing worse. I sometimes wonder-" Allenby stopped, cleared his throat and didn't continue.

"I think," Wimsey said slowly, "that he was a little broken before he even went out there."

"But I didn't help." Allenby shook his head. "I didn't help at all."


End file.
